


How the Other Side Lives

by Skalidra



Series: Crossovers [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bits of Flirting, Crossover, Earth-3, Gen, Mirror Universe, Portals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 22:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13176174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Nightingale, right hand of Owlman, and Nightwing, the prodigal son of Batman, are both different versions of the same man; Dick Grayson. They're from two very different worlds, with very different enemies, and when they each end up in the other's universe, there are a few... misunderstandings.





	How the Other Side Lives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firefright](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/gifts).



> Welcome! Alright, first and foremost this is a Christmas gift for my darling [Firefright](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr. She gave me three prompts (well, technically four, but shhhh), and I wrote two of them. This is the first. Because I mean, when someone wants me to write more Nightingale, how can I not write more Nightingale?
> 
> So this is an unofficial crossover between my Earth-3 universe, and the canon world. It's not an actual part of the storyline, but it will make much more sense if you've read at least the first part of Earth-3 series, [right over here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/186794). Specifically, the story 'Slight Misinformation', that deals with Nightingale meeting Earth-3's President Slade. It's not absolutely necessary, but this story will make more sense if you've read that first. Enjoy!

Dick thinks this might be the strangest world he’s ever been in. He’s been to his fair share of alternate realities (heard about an interesting couple from Jason too), but he doesn’t think any of the bizarre things he’s heard about — vampires and reversal of genders and some sort of weird steampunk world — quite compares to getting spat into this universe in a burst of brilliant light and landing, sprawling, in the middle of what looks like the oval office. Because the man who jerks up from behind the desk has a familiar face and close-cropped white hair, and Dick has about a second and a half to process that this must be a different universe or some sort of strange magic problem before a suited _Slade Wilson_ is drawing a gun on him from the back of that desk.

“Woah!” he calls, rolling to his feet as quickly as he can but staying ducked down and coiled. “Hang on a second; this isn’t—”

He dives to the side as Slade’s hand twitches, and the bullet hits the carpet instead of _him_. The shot rings through the room. Dick gets behind one of the couches, pressing his back to it and only taking a short glance over the edge to pinpoint where Slade is, circling around the desk.

“You’ve been warned to stay out of my business, Nightingale,” Slade growls at him. “The broken arm wasn’t enough for you? Come back for seconds?”

A broken arm? _Nightingale?_ Okay, yeah, this is definitely some other universe because none of that sounds familiar. Apparently he and Slade still have some history between them though; some things just don’t change.

“Slade, _wait_ ,” he calls, taking a small breath. “Look, there is something wrong here. You saw how I got here, right? I’m not sure what you’re talking about but my name is Night _wing_ , not Nightingale. Can you give me a chance to talk? Figure this out?”

“Sure. Take the mask off, cuff yourself, and then I won’t shoot you the moment I have a decent angle.”

That uncompromising tone is familiar, and Dick grits his teeth and thumps his head back against the couch. He really doesn’t want to make a terrible impression on this new world (or timeline), but if this is some sort of elaborate trick… He can’t give up his identity, not without being reasonably sure this can’t come back to bite him. He has more to protect than just himself.

“How about we compromise?”

He pulls a pair of restraints from his belt, fairly sure that a zip-tie isn’t going to cut it in this scenario, and extends both hands up above the couch. He doesn’t get shot, so that’s a promising sign. He snaps the cuffs around one wrist, secures it around the other with a twist of his wrist, and demonstratively tugs at them a couple of times. There’s no verbal response.

Dick grits his teeth, sucking in a breath and praying for a brief moment that this doesn’t all go terribly wrong. “Now I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t shoot me,” he says, as he slowly uncurls from the dubious protection of the couch and steps off to the side. He keeps his hands held high, his muscles coiled in case he needs to get out of the way of a bullet again. Not an unlikely scenario, considering Slade — wow, that really is _Slade_ — still has that hefty handgun pointed his direction. Armor piercing rounds? Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be surprised.

“Alright, boy. Talk.”

Every instinct he has says to get out of the way of the line of fire, but Dick takes a slow breath in and makes himself ignore all of it. “I don’t think this is my universe,” he starts with, keeping his voice pitched low and non-threatening. “Or maybe it’s a different timeline; I’m still working on that. Either way, things seem to be pretty different over here and I don’t think I’m anything like whoever it is you think I am. I’m not asking you to just believe me, but I’m asking that you not shoot me until we figure this out. Please.”

Slade lifts an eyebrow, gaze sweeping over his frame in a quick slide. “If you’re remotely telling the truth, you’ve been here all of a minute. How would you know if things are different?”

Dick can’t quite help the snort, but he quickly strangles down the rest. “Well, the Slade Wilson I know definitely isn’t President of the United States, so there’s that.” There’s a flash of interest in Slade’s expression, and Dick capitalizes on it. “He’s a mercenary that goes by the name ‘Deathstroke;’ we’ve tangled… more than a few times.”

“And yet you still seem to be very alive.”

“That’s a little arrogant,” Dick says before he can manage not to. Slade’s eye narrows, and he drops his gaze a half-second to show surrender before he quickly adds on, “It’s not that cut and dry. He respects me, and even though he’s sort of a murdering bastard I respect him too. Most of the time I don’t think he’s really trying to kill me, and the times he has been, I’ve been good enough to survive. Or had help.”

Slade’s expression is wariness with a healthy dash of skepticism, and Dick weighs the odds of targeting hot spots for a second before deciding that the gun on him justifies targeting just about anything he can think of.

“I don’t know if you have them too, but Joey and Rose? I helped train them. And Grant? He took a serum trying to emulate the enhancements that were done to you and tried to kill me and the rest of my team; it killed him before he could get the job done.” Slade’s expression has tightened around the edges, but it doesn’t otherwise change. He tilts his head, bites his tongue for a moment. “Is that look because you don’t have kids, or because none of that sounds familiar?”

There’s a moment of silence. “It’s because all of this sounds like an excessive amount of lying to avoid me shooting you, if you are Nightingale. There are easier lies, and easier ways to get out of this.” The eye narrows a little further, flicking Slade’s gaze down his body in a sharp burst. “Different costume, less deadly looking weaponry… What exactly is it that you are, on your supposed world?”

Dick blinks. “A hero. I… What am I _here?_ ”

Slade lowers the gun slightly, studying him. “Nightingale is one of Owlman’s subordinates; his right hand. The Owl runs nearly all crime in Gotham and is the unofficial head of the Crime Syndicate, when he tries to enforce his will on the rest of the world. Equally unfamiliar?”

Dick squints, tilting his head. "No. I have a brother who went on a trip through some alternate universes a while back, chasing someone. He told me a bit about some of the worlds they went through; I think he mentioned that one had some kind of... evil Justice League. 'Owlman' and 'Crime Syndicate' both sound familiar, but I don't remember him giving me any details." He lowers his hands slightly, till he can rest them on the top of his head instead of holding them up. Slade's eye is narrowed again. "That didn't really help, did it?" he realizes, with a wince. "'Nightingale' is new to me, promise. I'm really some kind of… villain, on this world?"

"That's putting it mildly." The gun lowers a bit further, and Slade's lips press together into a thin line. "Take off the mask, 'Nightwing.' That will convince me."

It's an easy way to make it all work, but Dick finds himself hesitating. If this is anything but what he thinks it is… He just can't.

"No."

"Excuse me?"

He braces, straightening a bit and meeting Slade's look head on. "No. It's too much of a risk. I think it's most likely that this is an alternate world, but if it's not… If it's some telepathic villain or magic mind-game? I have too many people to protect; I can't risk it. If that means you shoot me, then you shoot me. I'm sorry."

There's a moment of silence where Dick tenses, ready to get the hell out of the way if Slade takes the shot. He doesn't know where he can possibly go, but the first step is disabling this Slade long enough to get out of the room. After that… Well, if they all think he's some kind of psychopathic killer, maybe he can try holding Slade hostage and see if that will get him out.

Slade clicks the safety on and lowers the gun. "I suppose that's good enough for me."

Dick blinks. "Wait, really?"

The look Slade gives him then has one arched eyebrow, and an edge that really does remind him of his world's version. Not many people can make him feel like as much of an idiot as Slade can sometimes. "The lines of your face may be the same, but you don't move, speak, or otherwise look like he does. I can give you behavioral reasons too, but since you don't know Nightingale, there's not much point to it. So, let's get to work on getting you out of my hair, shall we? I have more important things to do than babysit you."

He snorts, shaking his head. "Yeah, now you sound like my version of you. Okay, what do you need?"

* * *

The cuffs come off, and Slade leads him out into the rest of the White House. The Secret Service isn't at all happy about Dick being there, but Slade stops them from trying to shoot him which is at least a first step; people seem to be just as wary of him as Slade was to start with. Still is, in ways. (He can see the suspicion in the edges of the looks aimed at him, but does his best to ignore it and not give any reason for that suspicion to be valid. That's the best he can do without sacrificing more than he's willing to.)

Slade keeps him confined to specific rooms of the White House; contained, single-entrance rooms that he doesn't like but accepts as part of getting all of them to trust and help him. They start with him describing every bit of the transfer he can remember, and any details on both sides of the jump that might come in handy. Then Lex Luthor shows up, and yeah, meeting a good version of Lex Luthor comes in as second in his list of weird experiences, at least for the moment.

Lex is the one to confirm that he actually is from a different universe, thanks to a full body scan and the clinging presence of some kind of obscure particle. It's a little bit above his head (and Slade's, judging by reaction) but what it comes down to is an endorsement from Lex that he is, in fact, not from their world and not this 'Nightingale.'

That goes a long way towards getting them to be more openly helpful.

There must be other things to do, but Slade sticks close by his side for hours, as Lex asks questions and works on, presumably, a way to get him back home through some sort of portal or another. (The trouble is not in bouncing him to another world, according to a half-frustrated rant, but in making sure that he actually makes it to the world they want to send him to, not some random one.)

Dick is pretty sure that it's out of a worry that he might suddenly turn on Lex, and not any sort of concern about him getting home. He's really starting to wonder about this alternate version of himself. Do they have the same skills, the same training, the same background? If this 'Owlman' is Bruce, then was being taken in by an 'evil' version of him really all it took to turn him into a villain? Or are there other differences in his past? What about the rest of the family? Are they here too? He has too many questions, and given that Lex is firmly involved in his calculations, the only person to turn them on is Slade.

Dick comes over to stand beside him, keeping his arms loose at his side and his posture as non-threatening as possible. He also keeps himself several feet away; too far for him to reach without a lunge, but just close enough that Slade's longer arms could bridge the distance. By the way Slade looks at him, gaze flicking over the space between them, he recognizes the advantage, and that it's intentional.

He gives it a moment, in case Slade wants to be the one to break the silence, but when he doesn't he does it himself. "So, you know the version of me on this world?"

At the lab's table, Luthor glances back. He doesn't comment.

Slade watches him for several moments, silent, before giving a small nod. "I do."

"Nightingale, you said?" That only gets him a nod. He chews over potential directions to take the ‘conversation,’ resisting the urge to fiddle with any of his gear (he can’t believe Slade hasn’t tried to confiscate any of that yet). He settles on offering, “I’ve known my version of you for a long time; over a decade. It’s pretty rare that we’re on the same side, but I’ve always thought he was… honorable. In his own way.”

“Good for him.”

Well, that was… less engagement than he was expecting, and he wasn’t expecting much. “I’ve wondered sometimes what he might have accomplished," he continues, surreptitiously eyeing the side of Slade's expression to try and spot a change. "If he’d chosen to take a better path; something less self-serving. Gotta admit, this is not what I expected. President." He makes light of it, turns it into a joke as he smiles and gives a quiet laugh. "What sort of a platform did you run on? Still have military background, I assume, so that's—”

" _Kid_ ," Slade suddenly snaps, turning towards him in a smooth pivot, glaring down with pressed-together lips and a narrowed eye. "Cut it out."

He blinks, turning to give Slade the same respect and face him head on. "Cut what out?"

"The small talk; the digging for information. Nightingale doesn't 'chat' unless he wants something out of it or he's distracting you, and I don't believe for a second that you do either." Slade doesn't sneer, but by the small twitch of his lip it's a near thing. "Don't try and manipulate me, kid. I won't play along."

Dick takes a mental step back, slotting the new pieces of the puzzle into place and reevaluating the situation. Alright, doing this subtly is not the way to go. Message received. He guesses he should have known that; Slade's always been pretty blunt and straightforward, so it makes enough sense that his doppelganger would have those qualities as well. Maybe a bit more _aggressive_ ; but then maybe he’s just never irritated Slade enough in conversation to see this side. After all, there he usually doesn’t have to pry for information, and he wouldn’t expect to get any anyways.

He crosses his arms, tilting his head as he considers different approaches. Maybe blunt really is best; why not try?

“Alright,” Dick starts, with a brief inclination of his head. “I want information about this world. Anything I can get really; history, current events, people, whatever. This isn’t a universe I know much of anything about, and I like having the information to make informed decisions. I get that you don’t trust me, and whatever encounters you’ve had with your world’s version of me have made you pretty much automatically dislike me. If you’re not willing to talk to me, fine. Just say so and I’ll leave it be. But for whatever my word’s worth to you, I promise I’ve got no intent to harm anyone here. I just want to get back to my own world.”

Slade’s expression is utterly unreadable, but Dick holds it. Tries to impart through his own expression and stillness that he’s sincere about this. If this Slade is still anything like his, then he’ll respect determination and strength of will. That, Dick can do no problem.

He’s not sure how long he holds Slade’s gaze, but eventually there’s a very faint nod.

“Okay, kid. Ask away.”

* * *

Dick hits the ground rolling, eyes squeezed shut against the bright flash of light that proceeded him getting thrown through the air. The surface he lands on has a bit of give to it, but not much, and his hands catch in something when he flings them out to halt his momentum. His eyes flick open, toes bending underneath where he's ended up face-down, head snapping up to get a look at his surroundings. A neutral, light brown carpet, cream walls, standard looking bed with rumpled covers and a phone on the—

Hotel. This is a hotel. Whatever bastard took him from Gotham is going to get gutted; he doesn't appreciate being teleported without his permission. He doesn't care what kind of game or power play this is, they've picked the wrong person to mess with.

"Well that's an unexpected entrance," a familiar voice comments, sounding dryly amused.

He shoves off the ground with exactly enough pressure to get up into a low crouch, bringing a smile to his face that's as sharp as the knife he draws from the sheath at his thigh as he spins around. The man standing there doesn't look concerned, arms folded over his chest and one white eyebrow raised over the single remaining blue eye. The face is familiar, but the haircut — jaw-length and loose, not that different from his own — and the armor he's wearing aren't. Mainly black, with orange highlights and an orange portion over the left shoulder, leading to a white arm that doesn't seem to belong with the rest of the suit. Sword hilt sticking up over his back, pistol at his thigh.

"Wilson," Dick greets, getting to standing in a slow rise and flipping the knife in his hand so it points backwards. "That's an interesting choice of suit."

What would Slade Wilson get out of teleporting him to some random hotel room? There’s no Secret Service here, no trap unless he’s yet to spring it, and Slade might have beaten him in their last scuffle but he didn’t peg the President as the type of man to go up against a dangerous enemy alone when he has the option not to. Why _not_ drop him in a room filled with automated guns, or one of Luthor’s inventions? A sword and a suit of armor seems like a stupid choice; Slade’s not a stupid man.

The eyebrow rises a little higher. "Wilson?" Slade echoes, eye narrowing. The gaze flicks to his knife, his suit, his face. There's a shift in how he stands at the same time as his expression settles into something slightly harder, one foot sliding back a couple inches to tilt his body as his arms fall to his sides. "Why don't you put that knife down, boy? I don't think I am who you think I am."

Interesting attempt at getting out of this; he's not stupid enough to drop his guard because of some cryptic words. Whether Slade was the one to bring him here or not, he’s armed and he’s preparing to fight. He should know better.

His arm twinges in phantom pain, remembering the _crack_ of his elbow breaking during their first fight and the grip of powerful fingers around his arm, but he brushes it off. He’s not that young or that naïve anymore. He knows what Slade can do; he’s prepared for it. He’s better than the last time they faced off, and he’s not about to let himself get goaded into a stupid attack this time either.

Dick lets his smile curl a little wider, tapping the hilt of his second knife but not quite drawing it yet. "Is that right? 'Cause you look a lot like Slade Wilson. Gained some muscle since last time though, haven't you?" He lets his gaze flicker down before he adds, "Or did you pad a little bit, where it _counts?_ "

Slade doesn't react to his comment except for the eye to narrow a little further. He's being studied. He moves, stepping back with one foot to angle himself sideways and present less of a target. The slight arch of his back is a distraction to draw the second knife, hiding it behind his thigh. Slade catches the movement though, if the flick of his gaze is anything to go by. But then, he also takes a glance at the curve of Dick's ass now that it's at a better angle in regards to him. Just a glance though; nothing large enough to capitalize on.

"Kid," Slade starts, voice low and almost cautious. "If you got hit with something, now would be the time to tell me."

"Oh, I haven't been hit yet," he purrs, unable to figure out exactly what Slade is talking about, "but I'm not opposed to a smack or two, long as you know who's in charge."

Slade's expression tightens a bit more. "Right. Why don't you tell me your name then, kid?"

He laughs. "Going senile on me, Slade? Aren't you a little young for memory problems?"

"Maybe I just didn't think you were worth remembering."

Dick holds the smile, but his eyes narrow behind his mask. It's not sincere, he _knows_ it isn't, but the dismissal still needles at him in ways he knows it shouldn't. He flashes a brighter smile and gives a mocking, slight bow. "Nightingale. At your service, President Wilson."

Slade's expression brightens to shock. He lunges.

The reaction time is better than he expected. Slade smacks aside the first knife with a few inches left to spare, but the second catches him across the ribs. Or would, if his knife didn't rebound off the armor with a flicker of orange light forming in a brief flash of hexagonal patterns. That's some sort of protection. Force field? Magic?

Slade strikes back, a quick swing for his head, and he has to dance away before he can analyze whatever it is and figure out a way around it. He studies it as he hangs back, letting Slade take the offensive.

Well, his head is uncovered, so that's one point of weakness. Then there's that white arm; it looks like it's not a part of the main suit, which might mean it's not protected. Those are easier, better bets than trying to figure out if there's some weak point or flaw in the design of the suit itself.

The next time Slade gets close, heel coming at his calf, Dick steps in instead of away and slices in at that white arm with his closer knife. There's still resistance, the tug of reinforced fabric, but it splits. Slade recoils with a small grunt, spinning to try and get the arm out of range. Like he's going to give up on an advantage that easily. He moves in tandem, circling Slade and following the retreat, staying as close to the vulnerable arm as he dares and aiming every slice of his blades at it. It keeps Slade backing up, keeps him turning and on guard as he tries to defend the weak point.

He draws blood a second time, third. Slade's hip checks the table the TV is balanced on and Dick slices up at his face instead in the distracted moment. Draws a thin line of blood across a cheek and a flash of bared teeth. It's easy to press the advantage, to follow the instinctive shift of his body and eye the line of Slade's throat where the armor ends beneath his chin. Too close? Will the shield protect that? (Why hasn't Slade drawn the sword at his back, or the gun? Would a gunshot draw too much attention? Is the room too small for Slade to believe he can fight effectively with the sword?)

He goes for the throat.

Slade's back hits a wall, and Dick slashes up. It bounces off the flash of the orange force field, but that bounce deflects it up and it still slices into the corner of Slade's jaw on the way up. Narrowly misses an ear and does catch a few strands of that white hair.

A knee slams into his gut. He chokes, nausea rising thick and fast up his throat, only barely held back by practice and force of will.

"That's _enough_ ," Slade growls. Knuckles crack across his cheek with enough force to knock him to the ground. "I'm done playing, kid. Drop the knives, back down, and I don't hurt you any more than this."

His vision is swimming, his breath coming hard and sharp in the only way he can manage with the nausea still trying to climb its way up his throat, but he curls his mouth into a smile anyway and twists his head to look up. "I don't think so."

Kicking out buys him enough time to roll to his feet as Slade dodges to the side. Except he loses vision for a fraction of a second and then suddenly Slade is _in his face._ A palm hits his chest with enough force to slam him back to the ground even through his armor, knocking what little breath he has back out of him. Slade drops to kneel over his hips. He lashes out on instinct, but hands curl around both his wrists, stopping them in their tracks with no apparent effort, and twist them hard enough that his hands drop the knives without his permission. He bites back the hiss of pain, hiding it behind the slant of a breathless, dangerous smile.

Slade yanks on one arm and Dick ends up suddenly on his stomach, that arm getting twisted back behind him till his shoulder lifts off the carpet and he can't restrain a low groan of pain. He reaches for one of his knives with the other hand, but a knee presses down onto his lower arm before he can get it, grinding it into the floor under weight and a dangerous amount of pressure.

“I said _enough_ ,” Slade repeats, other hand grabbing the back of his head and shoving it down. His cheek rubs against the carpet. “Whatever version of the kid you are, I am done with playing nice, boy. We’re going to have a little Q and A, and if you don’t behave the first thing that goes is your shoulder.” It’s twisted a fraction farther, and Dick grits his teeth together and swallows down any reaction. “Am I clear?”

Dick breathes out carefully, taking a moment to ease the stress in his throat out before he agrees, “You’re clear.”

Alright, so he's at a disadvantage. Something here is wrong. He thought he'd adjusted for Slade being faster and stronger than they'd originally calculated, but this goes beyond a bit of bad intel on what sort of training he's had. He's armed, more systematically efficient than anything Dick remembers from before, and that armor… He's never seen armor like that. Something here is completely wrong, and he hates that Slade seems to have a clue of what it is, while he doesn't. Think. What are the clues? Slade said 'version of the kid' when referring to him, implying knowledge of a… different him? Adding to that theory is the original phrasing he'd used, saying that he wasn't who Dick thought he was. Plus the shock when he'd greeted him as 'President Wilson.' Is this some sort of magic trick? A mind game? Or is it something more physical in nature; a different universe, or an alternate timeline? (Was this an accident, or is someone deliberately fucking with him?)

The grip on his shoulder eases some, letting him breathe again without having to drag it through gritted teeth.

"Good," Slade says, voice eased down the same degree as his shoulder. "So let's talk, boy. Do you know where you are?"

"A hotel," he snarks, before thinking about it. He's half expecting Slade to snap his shoulder for the sarcasm, even braces for it, but nothing comes. No pain. No retaliation.

In fact, Slade gives a small snort before speaking again. "How about a city? Continent?"

His gaze snaps around the room, trying to pick out any detail that might give a clue about that. Hotels are frustratingly standard at the higher rates, but maybe there's a brand name on something, something unique or telling… His eyes catch on the outlet on the wall; three pronged, the upper two turned sideways.

"United Kingdom," he says, with a fair degree of certainty. "London," he's less certain about, but he's willing to take a gamble.

"Not bad," Slade grants, "if you hadn't hesitated. You said your name was Nightingale?"

He can't lift his head to look at Slade, but he smiles anyway, flashing his teeth even if the only thing that will see them is the carpet. "That's right. You need a refresher course, Slade?"

The hand at the back of his skull curls, tangling in his hair and pulling his head a couple inches up. "That's interesting," Slade says, suddenly speaking in his ear, voice low and rumbling, "because the Grayson that I know goes by _Nightwing_."

For a moment he freezes up, breath catching in his throat as his eyes widen. He's not— Slade can't— He can't _know_. How could he possibly know? They've all been so careful about everything they do. No DNA or fingerprints in the system, no evidence, no witnesses left alive that might be able to tie their masked identities to the civilian ones. If someone knows who he is, how long before the world comes after him? After his family?

Slade has to die. No one can have that information and live, it's too dangerous.

He knows his reaction has lost him any hope of playing the whole thing off as a mistake, so he grits his teeth and demands, "How do you know that?" If he can figure out _how_ Slade figured it out, he can maybe stop it from happening again.

The fingers in his hair ease, pressing him back down. Slade's voice comes from further above him now. "I've known for a long time, but I'm guessing that's not true wherever it is you came from, is it? Unless the world has changed around me, I don't think you're from this universe, and since you popped out of a burst of light I'd say it's much more likely you're the one out of place instead of me." Hearing the same thoughts as he had echoed is enough for him to agree that the most likely options is that this is probably not his world. Not that he's going to say it; not that it matters. "So why don't you stay still down there while I make a call and confirm this theory?"

Dick can't quite stop himself from snarling and jerking against the grip on his arm, not that it gets him anything but a lance of pain down his arm. "I'll _gut_ you," he promises, as the hand leaves his hair. "I don't care what universe this is, if you tell anyone who I am I'll skin you alive, piece by piece until even your healing won't be able to put you back together."

"You, hunting me?" Slade comments, dry and idle. "That'll be the day. Whatever world you're from must be a real piece of work, kid."

If he can get the arm underneath Slade's knee free, he can grab his knife. Maybe from here he can reach the unprotected arm; cause enough pain that Slade releases him on reflex. Or maybe he can kick hard enough to destabilize him, if he curls his legs up. No, not with that force field. _Damn it_.

He stills as he hears a mechanical-tinted, quiet voice say, _"Wayne."_ A call, he meant it literally. That's _Bruce's_ voice.

"Mr. Wayne," Slade drawls, voice dropping to something low and faintly mocking. "I have a rather interesting version of your kid here calling himself 'Nightingale.' Why don't you come pick him up so I can get back to work?"

 _"Deathstroke."_ Bruce's voice is deeper and lower than it was, and the spark of relief in his chest at hearing that familiar tone is almost enough to make him miss the actual word.

'Deathstroke.' Is that this Slade's name? What is he, exactly? A hero? He's not inclined to think so, given that sword and the pistol. It's not all that common for heroes to use lethal weapons; it happens sometimes, but most times those people are firmly in the morally grey area, and they don't tend to call themselves heroes.

_"If you've done anything to Nightwing—”_

"The kid's missing, is he?" Slade interrupts. "I didn't have anything to do with it, Wayne; you can have my word on that. I just thought you'd like to know that there's a version of your kid here in London, playing with knives and threatening to gut me. Seemed like something you might want to know, and since I'm not interested in playing babysitter I figured you'd come take him off my hands and give us both what we want. Don't pretend you're not going to come, Wayne; we both know better."

There's a moment of silence that's remarkably telling; Dick grinds his teeth together and bites back another snarl.

Slade makes an amused noise, and then says, "I imagine you've traced the call; the room number's eight-four-two. I'll leave him gift-wrapped for you, but I'd hurry. If he's anything like your boy he'll work his way free fast enough."

_"Slade—”_

The voice cuts off.

"Alright, kid," Slade starts, the grip on his twisted arm shifting a bit but not coming anywhere near loose enough to break free from, "here's how we're going to do this. I'm going to sedate you and leave you here, and I suppose whether you're still here when your 'dad' shows up is up to you. I'd suggest you don't struggle; I don't think either of us want this needle to break off in your neck."

"That's it?" Dick asks, partially out of disbelief and partially to try and stall. If he just gets a little more time maybe he can think of some way out of this that hasn't occurred to him yet. Some move, or weapon. (If he dislocates his own shoulder, will that surprise Slade enough to get him to let go? It's a hell of a risk.)

He hears a quiet snap of plastic. A cap coming off a syringe, would be his guess.

"Yeah, kid, that's it. Look, I respect the version of you I know. He's damn talented and he's a good man, but whoever you are you're not my problem, and I'm not interested in making you my problem. Head down, kid. Relax."

As much as he wants to fight, he makes himself stay still. If Slade really is just going to leave him here, the better option will be to just stay put and let this happen. No, he doesn't want a broken needle in his neck, and the only option he's thought of is a terrible, risky plan anyway. Even if it works, then he has to go up against an enhanced, armored enemy with a useless shoulder. Those aren't good odds; this Slade's already beaten him once.

The needle stings as it goes in, just above the collar of his suit, just under his jaw. The rush of the plunger being depressed is an odd feeling, a cool rush as the liquid slides in under his skin. He bares his teeth but doesn't move until he feels the needle slip out again. Breathe slow, stay still, calm down. The lower his heart rate, the slower the drug will filter into his system. More time, more possibility to get some kind of advantage.

A moment passes, and then gloved fingers slide into his hair, rubbing against the back of his scalp. "Easy, kid. We're going to wait, then once you're out I'll tie you up, leave you as a present for the Bats. Decent trip from Gotham, even with their planes. You'll be out for most of it."

He probably shouldn't be speaking either, but he can't quite help asking, "Bats?"

Slade doesn't answer for a second, and then there's a chuckle that sounds amused. "Yeah, must be a hell of a world. Whatever you call your group, _Nightingale_. Here, it's the Bats. You'll see soon enough."

Here, Bruce and he are 'Bats'? Not Owls? What is this place? Why the name change? He's never liked not knowing the important pieces of the scenarios he finds himself in. He doesn't know enough about this world, he doesn't know who Bruce is in this world, or what sort of persona this 'Deathstroke' is, or his own doppelganger. Nightwing; where did that come from?

Slade's fingers slide through his hair, and frustration makes him twist his head and flash a sharp smile as he sneers, "I'm not a pet or your lover, Slade. Get your hands off me."

Slade laughs, but his hand does pull back. "You got it, kid. I admit, you're definitely an interesting version of Grayson. Maybe if I had the time I'd take the opportunity to learn a bit more about this world you're from. You called me 'President Wilson.' Now that sounds like an interesting story; I'm not sure I can imagine that."

"We'll kill you soon enough." He can just see Slade from this angle, watching him with cool amusement and a slight curl to his lips. He meets it with a wider smile, a deadly one. "You, and every piece of that family you protect. We don't forget insults; you'll make a mistake and it'll be your last."

Slade's watching him like he's a particularly curious animal, and when he leans down he stays _just_ far enough away to not be in range if Dick swings his head back. "Kid," Slade murmurs, holding his gaze, "I don't know what your version of me is like, but in this world you'd get a bullet between the eyes before you ever laid a hand on my family. If they didn't kill you first. However lethal you think you are, I guarantee you're not enough to match me. Save your threats for targets that you can handle."

Dick laughs, keeping it light and amused and wishing Slade was just a bit closer. Close enough to _hurt_. "You're bleeding, aren't you? You think that little spar earlier was all I can do? I've beaten people tougher than you before."

He can feel the drug starting to affect him. The fatigue in his muscles, the quick onset of the fuzziness starting to cloud his thoughts. He's always hated this feeling, even when he's actually consenting to the drugging.

"That's cute," Slade retorts, and then shakes his head and straightens back up. "Go to sleep, kid. Sweet dreams."

There's nothing he can do to resist.

* * *

When he comes to there's someone there, and he's definitely not in the hotel anymore. There's an alarm, something beeping a warning, and his head rolls as he wakes up, groggy and disoriented. It's dark; there's a rush of movement ahead of him through a… cockpit? Is this a plane?

He swallows a groan back down, blinking to focus his vision and try and shake off the half-conscious feeling. Another reason he's always hated drugs; this period of disorientation when coming out of them is one of the worst feelings he's ever experienced. Pain is one thing, but this… Most times he'd take the pain to not have to feel this.

There's movement ahead of him, a person, and he shifts backwards but there's nowhere to go. His back is pressed to something, his arms are strapped down— _He's_ strapped down. He brings up the best smile he can manage, focusing on the person moving towards him, curling his fingers to fists and— and his hands are _bare_. Where the hell are his gloves? Is the rest of his suit still on? Is his mask? His weapons, tools? How defenseless is he right now?

"Easy," the man says, standing tall over him, and a part of Dick instantly relaxes.

"Bruce," he says, before he thinks about it. Before his mind actually puts together what he's seeing. That's Bruce's jawline, it's his voice, but that black suit, the shape of it… That's not Owlman. That's not _his_ Bruce. The hand that touches his face is in a glove, not a metal gauntlet, and the thumb is smooth as it slides over his cheekbone. No faint scratch of a talon, no familiarity.

"I'm sorry," not-Bruce murmurs, and the brush of the thumb becomes a pressing palm, forcing his head sideways against the back of the chair, baring the side of his neck.

"Don't _touch_ me," he hisses. "You're not my Bruce, you're not—” He cuts off at the sting of what must be another needle, jerking but not moving more than a fraction of an inch against the powerful hold pinning his head to the side. The sound that escapes him is something desperate and angry, and he feels out of control and he hates it but he can't think clearly enough to do anything else.

The hand releases his head, but the darkness is already taking him again. He closes his eyes and slips out of time.

The next time he opens them, he's in a cell. Alone.

He takes his time exploring it; every corner and every possible weakness, but there aren't any he can find. None that won't take weeks or months to exploit, anyway. He's been stripped of his suit, his mask, and every weapon on him. The loose cotton clothing replacing it isn't particularly ideal for escaping. Besides, there's a protected, recessed camera in each corner and he's not about to show his hand before knowing exactly who's watching. These 'Bats,' whoever they are, aren't going to learn anything from him that easily.

He paces the cell, moving to keep his muscles warm and shake off the last of the drugging, and settles in to wait.

* * *

"Well, he's definitely from a different world than ours."

Bruce resists the urge to give any physical reaction to those words, other than pulling his gaze from the lithe, rolling stride of the man that both is and isn't his son and turning it to Zatanna instead. She takes his attention as a cue for more information, as he knew she would.

"His energy's all out of whack; it doesn't resonate with the things around him the way that people born to this universe do. I've felt things like that before; visitors aren't too uncommon." She shifts her weight, bracing a hand on one hip. "What's your plan, Bruce? You didn't need me to confirm that he was from some other world; you called me here because you think I can do something about it."

"Can you?" he asks, instead of answering her question.

She sighs. "Maybe; let me make a few calls and see what some of my contacts know about this. Give me some time, Bruce. It's possible that I might be able to… focus on his energy to find the universe that matches. Or maybe find our Nightwing; it can't be a coincidence that this one shows up at the same time that ours vanishes. Maybe it was some sort of spell that did it. I'll do what I can; we'll find him."

* * *

"I think I've got it," Lex says suddenly, and Dick stops nearly mid-sentence and turns to look at him. He brandishes a piece of technology, something roughly handheld, with a screen at the front and several buttons at the front.

Dick takes a step forward, but resists crossing the rest of the distance. Lex probably wouldn't appreciate him coming up that fast, or that directly. He's spent the last however-long getting told that in this world he's the murdering right hand man of a crime lord and supervillain; he shouldn't have to keep reminding himself that his actions will be interpreted differently here. He has to be slow, to be obvious, to be friendly and keep his distance unless people are comfortable with him getting closer.

"Theoretically," Lex says, tapping the buttons, "this should allow you to page through various different universes and find the one you belong to, and then open a portal to get back. Testing it is a bit of a problem, but if you end up in the wrong world you'll still have it with you so you should be able to course correct." He clears his throat, narrows his eyes down at the device. "Assuming it works."

"Got any idea what that risk percentage is?" he asks. "Or am I better off not knowing?"

"Well," Lex begins, looking up at him with one arched eyebrow, "if I were anyone else I'd say roughly thirty percent. But given that I'm me, and invention is what I happen to be particularly good at, I'd say it's more like five. You should be fine."

Slade, not having moved from his previous position, snorts but doesn't comment. Lex narrows eyes at him, but the look only lasts a moment.

"I think that's a chance that I'm willing to take," Dick offers, and Lex nods and holds out the device.

"Alright, go ahead and find your world."

Dick takes the device — teleporter? Portal-opener? Dimensional hopper? — and Lex quickly steps in beside him, explaining how it works and what to do to work it. It's all rather simple, actually. After that, all it takes is tapping through the brief summaries of each world until he finds one that sounds just like his. Well, ideally anyway.

"And if this isn't right, I can just do this again and go to a different one?" he questions, just to be absolutely sure. Lex hums confirmation. "Alright. Then thank you, for all your help. Both of you." He turns to look at Slade, and offers a dip of his head. "If we never see each other again, it was nice to meet you, Slade. Good luck with… everything here. I hope you beat them."

Slade nods back, something just at the edges of his expression softening. "You too, kid. Good luck with… that other me."

Dick can't quite help the snort and the wry tilt of his head. He hits the main button on the dimension hopper, and a large, swirling portal blooms into existence in front of him. He takes a breath, and steps into it.

* * *

"You're going to send me home?" Dick asks, not bothering to hide his suspicion behind a smile or a lie this time. They _should_ know he doesn't believe them. Not for a second.

They carry him off to a cell, hold him for hours, this 'Bruce' comes to ask him questions about his world and his own family, and then they just… send him back? He didn't give them anything important, he's sure of it. Nothing of any tactical use, and nothing they could have recorded and used as evidence against his family. He didn't even admit he really was Nightingale, or that the suit was his. He knows how to avoid incriminating himself.

The idea that they'd willingly send him back to his family after all of this is laughable. Why give up an advantage? Why just send him back when they must know, or at least suspect, that he'll hunt down every last one of them if he gets any indication they're behind this. (It doesn't seem like it so far, but he'll wait for the evidence.)

'Bruce' dips his chin half an inch, standing just to the side and in front of this woman he's brought, 'Zatanna.' She seems familiar, Dick's sure he's seen her before but maybe as someone else, on his world. He'll have to check next time he has access to their database; the connection's hovering right at the edge of his mind. The protective element there seems highly unnecessary. He can recognize the quality of this 'Batman's' suit; going up against it with no weapons and no enhancements isn't a risk he wants to take. Not when they're apparently cooperating anyway.

Besides, magic users are difficult to handle without tools. He'd rather not.

"Why would you do that?" is his second question, and that one he adds a smile to, a step to the side to angle how they face each other. "You think I'm a threat, it's not hard to see. Why set me loose?"

Bruce's jaw twitches; minuscule and unnoticeable unless you're looking for it. "You'll be 'loose' in a different universe. You've done nothing on this world to justify imprisonment; whatever my personal feelings, I'm not going to hold you without just cause."

A hero version of Bruce. How _adorable_. And naive. He's still finding it hard to believe that a world like this really exists. Slade — he's learned from comments — a mercenary villain, while his family call themselves _'heroes.'_ He can't quite decide whether it's sad or just amusing. Either way, he's looking forward to telling Bruce about this world. If they can find a way to cross dimensions, maybe they can use it to their advantage. If not, it will still be an entertaining story.

"Just cause," he echoes, and laughs. "Alright. So to send me back to my world you want to use magic? You expect me to walk through a portal, without being sure of where it goes?"

"I'll know," Zatanna answers; she's not afraid of him, just wary. "I'm matching your energy to the dimension I'm accessing; it will be the right one. You have my word."

As useless to him as this Bruce's words. "I don't know you," he points out. "What's your word worth to me, exactly?" He turns his head, fixing his gaze on Bruce instead. "The things I came with?" They're sitting in a pile across the room, weapons wrapped within his suit, the entire thing very out of reach unless he goes through both of them first. He doesn't quite look at them, but he re-checks their position again, just to be sure.

"Will be returned to you when you're ready to go through. All of it." It doesn't look like he's entirely happy with that prospect; the words grind between his teeth some. Dick's heard that same tone before.

There's also an implication here, if he's reading between the lines correctly, that his cooperation is really just a formality. If this Bruce is still at all like the one he knows, he'll be more than willing to just throw him into the portal if he refuses to go. Given that, he's better off just walking through on his own. The chances are better of seizing an advantage that way.

He keeps his smile. "I suppose that will have to be good enough. Alright then, when will we do this?"

Bruce's head tilts, very slightly, towards Zatanna. She answers.

"I'm ready to begin now. It shouldn't take more than a few minutes to summon the portal, but I won't be able to hold it long. You'll need to be ready to go through. Are both of you ready?"

Bruce's, "Yes," is the first answer, and Dick echoes it a moment later.

Yes, he'd like to be out of this universe.

She starts right away, slipping to the side to an open, clear area and beginning to chant. It takes several sentences for Dick to start to recognize the 'language' as simply… backwards. English words said backward, to channel spells. That's an interesting technique. He can't quite decipher the words, they go by too fast. However strange, it seems to work. Symbols form on the ground in blue, sparking curves, then rise to the air as her arms guide it. They begin to circle, spin faster. Bruce steps aside and collects the bundle of his things.

"Now!" she calls, over the growing sounds it's making. Like spitting fire and electricity all at once.

Bruce steps exactly close enough to hand him the bundle. Weapons in the center of the clothes and out of immediate reach. Fair enough. He smiles one last time, making it as dangerous as he knows how, before he heads for the portal. It's uninviting. It looks more like a death trap than an actual passage back to his world, but he brushes that thought aside. Heroes rarely kill, and there would have been easier ways to kill him than tricking him like this.

He walks in.

* * *

The moment Dick half-staggers out of the portal, dimension hopper thing clutched in his hand, he reaches for his phone. He's back where he was, alone on a rooftop in Bludhaven (it's become morning while he's been gone though), and Bruce picks up after the first ring.

"Bruce, hey. Been a weird night; I wanted to call and update you as soon as possible."

 _"Something to do with alternate universes?"_ Bruce asks, sounding slightly relieved and also somewhat distracted.

Dick blinks and takes a seat, setting Lex's tool aside and putting his back to one of the rooftop's ledges. "Yeah, exactly. How do you know that?"

 _"Deathstroke called us in to collect a version of you that he'd met in London."_ Slade again. What did this have to do with him? Was whatever swapped their worlds tied to Slade's presence, somehow? Or was it just an insane coincidence? _"He carried knives, called himself—”_

"Nightingale?" Dick guesses, letting his head fall back. "Yeah, I've heard of him. From what I've been told, we're… not the nicest people in that world. To put it lightly. Is he still here?"

_"No. We sent him back to his world about an hour ago."_

He sighs. "We might have wanted to keep him here. Look, I'll head for Gotham. You can tell me about him, and I can tell you what happened to me. Alright with you?"

Bruce's answer is a simple, _"Yes."_

"Great. Then I'll see you soon. Oh, and Bruce? I'm alright. Promise. Not even a bump."

After a moment of silence, Bruce does answer. A soft, _"Good. I'll see you soon, Dick."_

Dick breathes out, long and slow, as he ends the call.

No matter what happens, he'll always have his family to back him up. And he'll always be grateful.

**Author's Note:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


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